


More of a Comment Than a Question

by abrighteryellow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Harry Styles, Actor Louis Tomlinson, Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, But you don't have to be a fan, Conventions, Doctor Who References, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23595538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrighteryellow/pseuds/abrighteryellow
Summary: After guest starring in a popular science fiction series, Louis is invited to attend his first fan convention. He arrives ready to take it all in stride, but finds himself distracted by a handsome stranger who seems to know exactly who he is.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 259





	More of a Comment Than a Question

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been brought to you by quarantine boredom/missing the homies. Huge thank you to [crinkle-eye-boo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimmieRocks/pseuds/crinkle-eyed-boo) for being my eternal sounding board and for the quick and dirty beta. It's about time you got your namesake character!
> 
> All remaining errors are mine.

The day Louis was accepted into drama school, all of his wildly varied daydreams about what life would be like as a working actor came sharper into view, as if each possible reality were simultaneously drawing nearer.

This bit, however, he did not see coming.

Currently, he’s on the basement level of an airport conference hotel, sat behind a card table covered with a linen that’s seen better days and 8x10” photos of himself both in and out of wardrobe. Only the piles of costumed shots have gotten noticeably shorter in the two hours he’s already been stationed here, with a desk plate of folded card stock announcing his name. 

As dedicated as these fans are, only a small fraction of them know him by his face.

It was a decent gig. More than. Louis was plenty happy to bid farewell to the prosthetics and heavy plated armor the role required on the day that he wrapped his two-parter, but the wardrobe and makeup department did their best to make sure they were merely uncomfortable, not unendurable. The pay was nice; the main cast were ace; and best of all, he could say that he’d appeared in a program he’s been watching off and on since he was a lad.

As for this, well...

He knew these types of things existed. People gather at convention centers or hotels dressed up as their favorite obscure character – the one who can be glimpsed for a whole twenty seconds in a story from 1972 – and that was about where his understanding of fan conventions stopped. He’d certainly never dreamed that he would be _invited_ to one, paid and everything. He and his agent had to scramble to come up with the previously non-existent “appearance fee” that the organizers had asked for.

And that was only the baseline take. It was explained to him and his (one-person) team that Louis could set the amount that he charged for each individual autograph and selfie at his designated table. His travel and hotel were obviously covered. So even though Louis remained relatively sure that the convention had confused him with someone else (David Tennant, perhaps?), he boarded the nonstop flight from London to Los Angeles confident that he’d end the weekend well into the black, even if he were mostly ignored.

To his complete shock, he hasn’t been. It’s only his first day on the floor, but he’s already met dozens of fans of all ages – some of whom seem quite excited to talk to him. There are questions about the creature costume, working with the star, and whether or not his particular villain is coming back (“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” Louis says with a smile, trying not to let his eagerness for that very call show through.), but his favorite conversations have been with the kids. Some parents have come by with their little ones just to prove that Louis is the nice, normal man behind the scary mask – that everything they see in the show is pretend. The organizers had warned all the guests not to be seen taking photos for free, but it honestly pains him to charge for the selfie he takes with the four-year-old who pinches his cheeks, then frowns at Louis skeptically, not falling for the trick he believes is being played on him.

At least he has an assigned “handler” who takes care of the money part. It makes Louis feel less mercenary.

All in all, it’s been a pleasant morning so far, made all the more so by Louis’ view.

The vendor hall is growing more crowded as lunchtime hits, but every few seconds, Louis is able to tilt his head just so and see between the staggered bodies to a table set up a couple of aisles away.

The table itself is not of interest really – it’s almost identical to his own. He’s much more curious about the person sitting at it. 

His hair was the first thing Louis noticed – tousled high in loose, chestnut waves – followed almost immediately by his blinding, sincere smile. While Louis, as what he would call a third-tier guest, had opted for a muted look in his black Fred Perry track jacket, this guy had dressed to be seen, in a button-down and a bright yellow polka-dotted sweater vest that probably looked like a clown’s idea of business casual on the rack, but stretched around him, makes Louis’ mouth go dry.

He can’t be any closer than twelve or so meters away, but his presence is distracting enough that Louis has to re-personalize a couple of photos, failing to reproduce the names that his serious handler has written out on Post-It Notes in bold, block letters. 

He’s watched all of this series and most of the past few years, yet Louis doesn’t recognize the charmer flirting with fans and outshining him in the fashion department. Could be from another sci-fi show, he figures – every year, he’s been told, a few locals set up shop in this very room to make some money, taking advantage of the overlapping Venn diagram of fandom. But the guy in front of him doesn’t have the look of a character actor or a retired hero who’s seen his heyday come and go.

He’s a leading man all the way, and it’s killing Louis that he can’t place him.

He wants to ask Kimberly – the businesslike woman whose excitement at being assigned to him already peaked at lukewarm – if she knows who he is. Surely she does; she has the composed confidence and unflappability of someone who’s seen it all when it comes to these conventions, and probably memorized the program book before it went to print. But he can’t think of a reason to ask that won’t expose his intentions, and, for some reason, Louis has a feeling that Kimberly frowns on guest fraternization.

He spares himself the disapproving look and continues stealing glances.

“Cheers, thanks for coming by to say hello,” Louis says a few minutes later, speaking to a pretty middle-aged woman with grey-streaked hair who looks almost identical to his school librarian. “Enjoy your con, love.”

The librarian lady thanks him one last time, holding her signed photo between her fingers. As she moves away from his table, he lowers his chin from where he was smiling up at her. 

And when he does, he locks eyes with the fit guy signing two aisles over.

Louis freezes but his heart rate quickens, his body reacting to the surprise.

The guy doesn’t behave like someone who’s been caught. He continues staring straight at Louis, outright, his mouth a curl of a bemusement. 

Okay, so Louis hasn’t been as subtle as he thought.

But what does that matter when he’s caught in the laser focus of the stranger’s curious gaze? Louis feels the back of his neck get hot, a pleasant static in his stomach. His fingers twitch on the tablecloth, but at the very second he decides to risk it all and wave, his view of his faraway new friend is replaced by the graphic on a t-shirt on a barrel-chested man.

Louis’ hand falls impotently back to the table, but he manages a tight smile. Not wanting to short-shrift the fan, he engages in short, polite conversation as the ink of his signature dries, swallowing his momentary disappointment.

When the man and his husband fold back into the crowd, Louis abandons all attempts at subtlety, his eyes quickly finding the familiar angle, hoping to make contact again.

But his boldness is in vain. The table sits abandoned, his mystery man off to another commitment. 

“It’s with an ‘ie,’ not a ‘y,’” Kimberly scolds from his left, pointing at another ruined glossy photo.

Louis lets out a disappointed sigh that has little to do with his spelling error.

“We’re gonna run out at this rate,” she mutters.

*****

Kimberly had met Louis near the elevators on his floor this morning, so this is the first time he’s been in the guest green room. It isn’t much – like the rest of the rooms, it’s the kind of innocuously blank space that suits most corporate occasions. 

The organizers have tried to jazz this one up by sprinkling some confetti over the table linens – between the bowl of fresh fruit and the trays of individually wrapped sandwiches. Louis presses the pad of his index finger into one such sparkly pile while perusing the offerings, then brings it towards his face. The piece of green glitter in the center of his fingertip is shaped like Saturn. A galaxy theme.

“You should eat something now,” Kimberly says, flipping ahead a page in her clipboard. “After this panel, you’re back to your autograph table until six. Those sandwiches don’t look like much, but they’re not bad.”

Hours after a continental room service breakfast, Louis should be hungry, but the heavy-looking blocks of meat and bread in front of him are threatening to turn his stomach. He regards the rest of the handlers and guests (no one _major_ , including the dark-haired guy, which is fortunate for his state) with jealousy, as they seem perfectly at ease.

If he’s honest, he’s not _not_ nervous about the panel.

It hadn’t registered as a big deal when his agent went over his obligations for the weekend: appear on a mainstage interview with all of the other guest actors at the con. 

But he’s belatedly realizing that he’s never done anything like that before. Acting in front of an audience is one thing – a thing he’s trained himself to be comfortable with – but this is no normal audience, and Louis doesn’t have a character to hide behind.

He learned pretty early in this journey that super fans of the show expect each and every person involved with it to have the same – or greater – grasp on its history and the ins and outs of its mythology as they do, even if they only spent a week on set and then moved on, like Louis did. And on that set, by the way, there was a script to recite, directions to follow, and a director to listen to. On stage in the ballroom, Louis will be winging it – failing miserably to impress the discerning hundreds who’ve already taken their seats – even if he won’t be doing so alone.

But when he scanned the list of his fellow interviewees, he only recognized one or two names, and those were actors he just knows as a fan himself. He doesn’t have a single ally to cling to. 

Again, he considers taking Kimberly into his confidence, but ultimately decides that he’d rather disappoint her onstage than off.

“I’ll be fine with crisps,” he says, crossing in front of her to pick through a basket of snack foods. 

“Suit yourself,” she sing-songs, taking a bottle of water for herself.

Louis is sitting in an uncomfortable banquet chair making his way through a bag and racking his brain for funny anecdotes when a low, deep voice at the door draws his attention. The man isn’t speaking loudly, but the bass in his tone settles right in Louis’ chest, forcing him to search for the source of it.

This unfortunately means that when Louis finds himself caught again in the gaze of his convention crush, he has half of a crisp hanging out of his mouth. 

Even more unfortunately, the guy is much more handsome from this distance.

He’s _tall,_ first of all.

The guy is tall, towering a head above his handler, three half-eaten Twizzlers bending like a bouquet in the grip of one large hand. His legs seem to go on forever in his vintage-looking, high-waisted jeans, and he’s also broader than Louis initially thought – lean, but strong, like a...fucking swimmer, or something.

And his eyes are green – green and gleaming like the Saturn confetti. Green like the science project goo that props whipped up to serve as Louis’ blood in the big battle scene. 

He doesn’t belong here, leaning alluringly in the doorway, twinkling at everyone like a young Paul Newman. 

It’s just not right. This is the kind of show where even the marquee stars look like they grew up without sunlight and were picked last for every team. That’s part of the appeal.

Louis notices all this and more before he thinks to pluck away the salty crisp that’s stuck to his lower lip.

He can’t tell whether it’s mocking – it doesn’t feel like it – when the guy smiles at him, two oversized, white front teeth suggesting a playful quality that makes Louis want to know him even more. 

Then he turns back to his handler to respond to something he said, and Kimberly is kneeling in front of Louis.

“Are you ready for this?”

*****

The guy has already disappeared again before Kimberly hustles Louis out of the room and into the hallway. They weave through attendees and volunteers, dodging remote control robots and costumed toddlers – Louis perpetually two steps behind – before Kimberly’s charge-taking stride stops in front of another anonymous-looking set of doors, these ones opening up into relative darkness and muffled conversation.

The backstage of the mainstage.

“I have Louis Tomlinson,” Kimberly whispers to a short woman in a headset and a t-shirt that reads, “If you don’t succeed, do what the stage manager told you to do the first time.” 

Louis stands next to her silently, experiencing a disorienting flashback to being dropped off at primary by his mum.

“Just missing one, then,” the stage manager makes a note on her clipboard. “That’s your moderator,” she says dispassionately to Louis, pointing at a blonde fellow in black-framed glasses chatting with a woman he recognizes from a three-episode arc about four years back, plus an acclaimed crime drama since. 

Back at his table, Louis asked Kimberly how they decided who ran the interviews at these things, and she explained that it was mostly writers and podcasters – fans who had become sort of celebrities in their own sphere. His moderator was the latter, hosting what Louis’ handler had said was a very popular Irish podcast on the show.

Kimberly assured Louis that Niall was “a pro.”

After the stage manager gives him a quick rundown of the onstage setup, Louis drifts through the other interviewees – he figures, given that he saw most of them in the autograph room – and closer to Niall, reckoning that it’s only polite to say hello.

“Sorry to interrupt–” 

“Louis Tomlinson!” Niall says in an enthusiastic but still hushed tone, thrusting out a hand and shaking his firmly. “It’s a real honor. Niall Horan. Thanks for doing this. Have you met Bernadette White?”

“No, no, not yet.” Louis tries not to blush over a podcaster recognizing him and a fairly renowned character actress saying how nice it is to meet him, but in combination, it’s fairly flattering.

“Shame we don’t have enough mics for everyone, but I expect we all learned how to share.” Niall winks at Louis, then peers around the backstage curtain at the one-on-one interview that’s still going on and shows no sign of stopping. “This fucking guy. Always goes over his time.”

“He pretends he can’t see us making the ‘wrap up’ signal,” the stage manager commiserates. “Blinded by his own ego, probably. Not that you heard that from me.”

“We have everyone, Janet?”

“Just missing…” Janet consults her clipboard again before answering Niall. “Harry Styles. We’re on it. You can get started and I’ll send him up to you when he gets here.” She juts her chin towards the stage. “If this one ever gets tired of the sound of his own voice. Wish they’d let me have that hook I keep asking for.”

Niall snorts quietly.

Finally, there’s a final thanks to the current guest and applause from the audience, then two older gentlemen descend the backstage stairs.

“Thank you ladies,” the blowhard moderator says to Janet and her tech with a self-satisfied flourish but without an apology. 

Niall rolls his eyes at his back as he leaves, and Louis is grateful he got one of the good ones.

“I’ll go out first and introduce you all,” Niall says to the complete strangers who’ve been assembled into a cohesive group by virtue of circumstance. “I’ll wait on Harry till I see him coming, okay Janet?”

Louis shakes out his hands at his sides, his chest tightening with that familiar rush of stage fright.

“‘m here,” someone says from behind him. “Sorry, got caught. Those corridors are murder.”

Louis watches helplessly as the fit guy – _Harry_ – crowds into the already packed area, looking genuinely contrite.

“You’re right on time,” Niall assures him.

Louis’ heart plunges into his stomach, but in an oddly nice way. The possibility of his distracting fellow guest being in the vicinity of this panel and overhearing Louis saying something stupid had crossed his mind, but the prospect of him sitting on the stage with him was too overwhelming to compute.

He faintly remembers reading the name on his itinerary, but had just assumed it belonged to someone from an earlier era – one of the grey-haired elder statesmen he’s seen congregating in a dapper group.

Harry Styles. It had to be the stage persona of some mid-’60s RADA graduate trying to steal some of the swaggering masculinity of his American counterparts. Not...this.

Louis regretfully tears his eyes away from Harry, who seems not to have noticed him, when another round of applause is triggered by Niall bounding up onto the stage and wishing the convention a hearty good afternoon. Not wanting to waste any more time, he quickly lists off the five panelists, and Louis falls into step with them as they venture out into the lights.

The stagehands have placed three loveseats on the stage, and there’s an awkward round of musical chairs as the interviewees figure out where they’re going to sit. Louis almost runs into the young woman in front of him before realizing that he should take a seat on the sofa right behind him. He backs up, then bends down to move the unopened water bottle that’s propped up against the cushion out of the way. Niall is vamping, cracking a joke about the hotel’s lunch options, when Louis settles himself in his spot and notices a flash of yellow next to him.

Panicked, he raises his chin to see Harry twist off the cap of his water and take a swig, the muscle movement drawing attention to the column of his throat and the tantalizing dip right at the top of his collarbone. 

Harry catches Louis’ eyes and pumps his eyebrows in greeting. 

“You want to be in charge of this?” he says softly once he’s swallowed, tilting his head to indicate the microphone that’s sitting in the crack between them, right next to his thigh. “I trust you.”

“Erm. Sure.”

Louis isn’t really sure what he’s agreed to. Anyway, he’s still thinking about that thigh. It’s hard not to when Harry is manspreading on their sofa like he’s in his own living room, his knees spread wide and arm thrown around the back.

He’s not as curvy as Louis himself, but he certainly fills out his ridiculous jeans. Louis likes them – quite a lot, actually – but he also wouldn’t mind running into Harry by the pool. Legs are a thing for him.

Here on stage, Harry takes up so much space so confidently that it makes Louis disoriented. He almost forgets that he’s in front of at least a thousand people and being streamed live on a giant screen and lets his gaze travel where Harry’s stance is basically inviting it to.

It’s Niall saying his name again that saves Louis from himself.

“...played Bose in ‘The Paradise Planet.’”

There’s some polite applause and one very gratifying wolf whistle. Louis raises his water bottle and smiles.

“And Harry Styles, your big episode was ‘Flesh and City,’ obviously, but you showed up in ‘Paradise Planet’ too, didn’t you?”

Louis freezes with the bottle halfway to his mouth, then flicks his eyes over to Harry.

Harry makes a “may I?” gesture towards the microphone, and Louis really can’t take him being charming too. He manages a nod, and Harry brings it to his mouth with a slight smile.

“Yeah, that’s right. My character didn’t have a name...at least I don’t think it did–” This gets a laugh. “–but I was one of the uh, the Avol.”

Niall continues moving down the line, but Louis isn’t interested in anyone else’s credits at the moment.

“That was _you?_ ” he whispers at Harry. “You were a...a tentacle-y thing?”

Harry drops his chin, seeming almost shy. “Just a couple days, mostly background.”

Louis shakes his head, totally thrown. In the midst of intergalactic war, _this_ was right under his nose.

“But they were disgusting,” he mutters, incredulous.

Harry shrugs amiably.

“You were great in it, by the way,” he leans in and says, right as Louis – disciplined as he is – turns his attention back to the moderator. 

If it weren’t for the rest of their company, his breath on Louis’ ear would have had a scandalous effect.

Louis tries to keep up with the conversation, but it spans a few decades and some less frequently discussed adventures. Anyway, he’s trained to within an inch of his life. He can certainly _act_ like he’s engrossed in every backstage anecdote while he’s really trying to work out how he managed to do the most significant job of his career so far without running into Harry Styles in the canteen or the makeup trailer or the car park. God knows, he would have remembered that.

Then there’s also the matter of Harry’s soft, breathy laughter, and the intense expression that comes over his face when anyone else is speaking, which either says that he’s even better at faking it than Louis or that he actually is interested – Louis is undecided on which is worse.

The best he can do is to listen for his own name so he’s not caught mentally undressing the man next to him. He _would_ like to be invited back someday.

“Harry and Louis, did you have any scenes together in your episodes?” Niall asks. “Or would you even be able to tell us? I always wonder with the creature actors, if you people even know who you’re acting with half the time.”

“You’re right, we don’t always,” Louis takes this one. “I knew the actors who played mine – I mean Bose’s – guards, but in an episode like this, where almost everyone but the principles are in creature makeup, it’s a bit anonymous.”

“I just met Louis right up here, just now,” Harry adds, taking the mic from Louis, their fingers brushing briefly. “Knew who you were, of course,” he directs this to him, which ignites a small flame in Louis’ chest. “It was great for me, since I was just getting started doing creature work, to see somebody like Louis really in his element, really setting the tone for the rest of us.”

“Oh.” Louis is touched by the sincerity in Harry’s tone. “That’s really nice. Cheers.”

With the hand that’s not holding the microphone, Harry presents his fist to Louis, who bumps it. 

“See, I love this,” Niall observes. “We’re bringing people together here. How’d you both get into creature acting? Such a fascinating field.”

They both give Niall their stories, which are pretty similar. They were hired to fill out some scenes and then built up a reputation for being uncomplaining and otherwise easy to work with, which led to more significant parts. So much about monster work has to do with endurance and adaptability. Not everyone is cut out for it, temperament-wise. But that’s not to say that talent isn’t a factor. Louis reckons that most award-winning film stars couldn’t turn in a performance worth a shit with three hours worth of prosthetics on their faces. You had to be up for it and you had to be _good_ – something he and Harry evidently agree on.

The panel goes by quickly, even as Louis is attuned to every shift of Harry’s body and becomes quickly addicted to the sound of his voice and the way it takes him twice as long as it should to voice his every thought.

Harry seems to be paying him a fair amount of attention as well, but these are not the circumstances under which Louis would choose to investigate whether someone was into him or was just exhibiting some professional admiration. As it is, he’s sure the whole room can see right through him, trying to tamp down the fond smile that threatens to overtake his face every time Harry makes a cheesy – like, truly humiliatingly bad – joke.

At least now they’ve been properly introduced. He can do his detective work later – chat him up a bit, without the audience.

With a few minutes to go, Niall turns the panel over to the audience, pointing out the microphone under the massive screen.

“And please keep it to one question – we want to get through as many as possible,” he warns.

There’s already someone waiting; a line forms behind him.

“This is more of a comment than a question,” a man of about thirty says into the mic. Groans ring out around the room, but he launches into his fandom origin story anyway.

By the time he gets to the end, Louis has disengaged completely. The outside of Harry’s boot is touching his sneaker, and though Harry isn’t looking at him – hasn’t looked at him, since he uncrossed his legs and made contact – Louis would bet his appearance fee that it wasn’t an accident.

Time slows to half-speed as the audience questions play out, and all Louis can think about is getting Harry Styles alone. Or at least more alone than this.

So the sense of relief that he feels when Niall wraps up the hour is layered. Louis survived his first convention panel. In fact, he did pretty alright. And he has an in for getting to know Harry further, which he plans on doing as soon as they’re off of these risers.

Backstage, there’s a flurry of handshakes and thank yous. As eager as he is to get to Harry, Louis takes a moment to tell Niall what a class job he did of putting them all at ease and keeping the conversation flowing. After telling him that they should grab a drink later, Louis makes his way to the door, hoping to catch Harry in the hallway. 

His eyes dart around as they adjust to the light, but there’s no tall brunette loitering around with the rest of the guests and handlers who are checking their schedules and planning their next moves.

“He had to run.”

Louis looks over his shoulder to see Kimberly leaning against the wall behind him, clipboard still in hand.

“I don’t know what you’re–” he stammers. “Who?”

“We’re not supposed to share this kind of information,” she says lowly, drawing closer to him, “but Harry had a meeting off-site this afternoon. They rushed him out as soon as the panel came down.”

“Oh.”

“He’s not scheduled for anything else today,” Kimberly continues, sounding apologetic. Maybe she’s not as opposed to fraternization as Louis assumed. “At least, I don’t have it on my sheet.”

“I’ll catch him tomorrow,” Louis rallies, brushing off her concern. “So, boss: where am I headed next?”

*****

Louis hasn’t had a hand cramp this debilitating since he was thirteen. 

Back then, it felt like righteous punishment – the discomfort he deserved for being hormonal and unmotivated to better himself in any other way than to perfect his wanking technique.

Today...well, it doesn’t seem that much different. He may have gotten the cramp by being productive – “promoting himself” in a way that would make his agent proud – but the ache in his hand only serves to highlight the bleakness of the evening ahead. 

There’s just something about being in a hotel in the middle of nowhere alone that really highlights how single he is.

After Louis finishes this Old Fashioned and maybe two more, he’ll retire to his nondescript room alone and find some relief, thinking of dimples and thighs and gigantic, elegant hands.

Then he’ll hate himself a little bit for being so fucking predictable. 

He’s drinking like he’s on his own, but he’s really not. The hotel lobby bar is hopping. Louis was told that these fans knew how to party, but he didn’t really believe it until he saw it with his own eyes. With those eyes, he spots quite a few people who probably won’t see their beds tonight, some his parents’ age.

He’s approached by the occasional attendee and happy to talk specifics of his episodes, as far as he remembers them. People are generally kind and unassuming and there isn’t the pressure he felt to perform earlier on stage – not when he can engage with someone one-on-one.

Still, those conversations don’t pull him out of that funk he falls into every once in a while, when he remembers what a lonely, nomadic life he’s chosen for himself. After they get the answers they came for, the fans who introduce themselves go back to their friends.

Louis goes back to his drink.

It’s not a social call, he reminds himself as he indicates to the bartender that he’d like another. It’s a job. For which he’s being paid. Nobody promised him the time of his life, and anyway, isn’t this far more than the average amount of validation a working actor should expect?

The couple next to him vacate their place at the bar, heading into the restaurant for dinner. Louis sullenly fishes his maraschino cherry out of his otherwise empty glass with his thumb and index finger, dangling it into his mouth.

“This seat taken?”

Closing his mouth around the garnish, Louis looks over his shoulder, and Harry is there, one hand on the back of the empty barstool next to him.

He plucks the cherry from the stem with his teeth, suddenly feeling the finger of whiskey he just imbibed. Everything about Harry seems _more_ in this context _,_ from the yellow of his vest to the width of his smile. The alcohol-soaked fruit bursts over his tongue.

Without consciously deciding to, Louis nods at the stool, bidding Harry to take it. The bartender takes his empty rocks glass and replaces it with a fresh one, then raises his eyes to Harry expectantly.

“Greyhound, please,” Harry says, perching himself on the barstool, his forearm coming to rest dangerously closely to Louis’.

“Oh my tab,” Louis adds before he can predict how Harry will interpret it. Given a second to do so, he decides that however he does is fine with him.

“I get the per diem too, you know.”

“Yeah, well.” Louis matches his smile. “Save it. Get a really extravagant breakfast. Or buy a drink for someone else tomorrow. Pay it forward.”

“I’d rather just get you back,” Harry says, eyes locking onto Louis’ briefly. “So we’re even, you know.”

“Oh. Well, that would be alright.” Louis takes a sip of his drink, willing his hopes down. “How was the meeting? I’m sorry, my person, she wasn’t supposed to say. But how did it go?”

“No, it’s alright. Good, I think. You know how it is, it’s almost impossible to tell. I didn’t want to leave here, but my agent couldn’t reschedule.”

“It was just the afternoon. At least you made the panel.”

“Yeah. I was mostly sorry that I didn’t get to talk to you more. I got worried that you were one of those Friday-only people – in bed by the time I got back and gone tomorrow”

Harry says this so openly that Louis’ cheeks begin to burn.

“Nope, I’m here until Sunday. You?”

“Likewise.” 

Harry’s cocktail arrives, and he initiates a quick toast.

“So, why?” Louis wonders, resting his head on his hand and facing Harry.

“Why what?”

“Why did you want to talk to me so badly?”

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“I admitted this to 1500 people, and you want me to say it again?”

“I don’t–”

Harry closes his eyes briefly and takes a breath.

“Louis, you are _so good_ at what you do,” he continues, coming at Louis again with his inescapable intensity. “I know you don’t remember me, but I watched you. I _studied_ you. I got into one of those costumes because I was tall and I could carry it, but I knew that if I wanted the real shit – the actual character stuff – I’d have to prove myself. So I watched you work.”

“Harry, that’s really...I don’t know what to say.”

“And I got there, after a little bit of work. So I felt like I owed you a thank you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Louis says, reeling a bit. “It’s really flattering, actually, that I inspired anybody, and–”

“But then I saw you, _as you,_ and the whole plan...well, it kind of broke down.”

Harry holds eye contact until it’s impossible for the motivation behind the comment to be misconstrued. Louis has half a mind to suggest that they move this party to the minibar right now – the one in his junior suite. But he has a feeling that not much talking would be done up there, and he’s not ready to end this conversation just yet.

“I can’t wrap my head round it. You – one of the things, the fucking _slimey_ things, with the... _huge_ tentacles.” Louis shakes his head, admiring the blush that’s creeping up Harry’s neck.

“Well, you know what they say, Lou,” Harry leans in and lowers his voice until Louis feels it vibrating under his skin. “It’s not the size of the tentacles, it’s how you use them.”

He wasn’t expecting that, so Louis guffaws loudly, throwing his head back.

“You do talk some shit,” he says (not un-admiringly) once he’s gained control of himself.

Well, some. He’s quickly becoming a slave to the grin Harry can’t quite keep at bay, even by biting down on it. 

“Is that alright?” Harry wonders semi-seriously, swirling the cocktail straw around in his peach-colored drink. 

Louis understands what he’s being asked.

“It is. It is, yeah.”

With that out of the way, they fall into easy – if charged – conversation. It’s the requisite getting-to-know-each-other stuff, but through the lens of their shared experiences. Lots of talk about this wardrobe assistant and that banoffee pie in the BBC cafeteria, plus the obligatory moaning about painful costume contact lenses – the universal downside to their line of work.

Louis learns that Harry is as genuine as he seemed on the panel but also possesses a wicked sense of humor. Also that he has one older sister and a flat in Richmond and that he tugs on his hair when he’s being complimented – Louis tests this one a couple of times to be sure that he’s right.

He’s met men in bars before – had conversations where it was clear from the beginning where the evening was headed – but the sense of anticipation had never been quite like this.

Maybe it’s that they’re in a hotel, a few seconds’ walk from the lift that could take them up to either of their rooms. Maybe it’s that they know that they’ll be seeing each other tomorrow – that they’ll be positioned right in each other’s sightline for another full day – and that there’s another night yet to fill. 

But Louis suspects that the circumstances don’t encompass all of it. Some of it – most of it, even – has to do with Harry himself. Louis may have wanted to fuck those men he met in those bars but he’s never _liked_ one of them quite as much as he does Harry.

“This is gonna sound weird, because...well, it just fucking is, but hear me out,” Louis warns.

Harry nods solemnly, which makes Louis snort laugh, which makes Harry giggle. 

It’s a mess.

“No, seriously, seriously.” Louis puts a hand on Harry’s thigh, just above the knee, to steady himself. Harry stills completely. “You good?”

Harry mimes zipping his lips shut, another laugh escaping through his nose.

“I just wanna know,” Louis continues. “Why monster shit? When you’ve got all this–” He waves his palm around in front of Harry’s face. “–why do you want to be a, a _thing?_ ”

He takes a sip of his third Old Fashioned.

“And I’m allowed to ask that, ‘cause I am in the club,” he declares.

Harry considers the question.

“I mean, it’s not _all_ I wanna do. But it’s like...it’s playing dress-up, isn’t it? People say that’s what regular acting is, but it’s not, not if you’re told to put on a jacket and be a guy named Jeff.”

“I played a Jeff once. He was a twat.”

“Exactly. But this...this is more like what you used to do when you were a kid. I can’t believe I get paid for it, honestly.”

“Or for this.” Louis holds up his glass and shakes it a little. “All these drinks have been free.”

“Anyway, I could ask you the same thing,” Harry says thoughtfully.

“Hm?”

“With that face – those cheekbones, that skin…” He falters a bit, and the tone of the conversation changes. “Do I really need to keep going? It was embarrassingly obvious, Lou. I couldn’t take my eyes off you all day.”

Suddenly the bar seems too loud, too crowded, too...clothed.

“Alright, so it’s settled.” Louis reaches over to where Harry’s hand rests on his thigh and threads their fingers together. “We’re both much too attractive for our jobs. Can I show you my room now?”

Harry winces and shakes his head slowly. “‘m not sure.”

“You bastard,” Louis gasps, slapping lightly at him.

Calmly, Harry gets a hold of Louis’ hand again, his thumb making circles on the tender skin of the inside of his wrist. “What floor are you on?” 

“Seven.”

“Well, I’m three.”

“Okay, so we’ll go to _your_ room,” Louis consents.

A smile spreads across Harry’s face, weighted and slow, like everything else he does. Louis is determined to dip his tongue into that dimple at the earliest available opportunity. 

Their bartender handles it professionally when they both ask for their bills at the same time. The heat emanating from Harry’s body makes it difficult for Louis to sign on the necessary line. (First he lost the ability to spell other people’s names, now his own.) But eventually he manages it, and they’re hustling towards the lift bank, fingers stretching towards each other, but not quite touching.

There are a handful of people already waiting, including a dad and his two young kids, so Louis keeps his hands to himself, plastering his palms to his thighs. In the decades that it takes for the lift to come and the departing passengers to spill out into the hallway, he takes a thorough survey of Harry’s profile, from his long, perfect eyelashes to his cut jaw. Harry stares resolutely ahead, but Louis can tell that he’s enjoying the attention. His cheek quivers like he’s trying not to smile.

Suddenly his fingers wrap around Louis’ wrist again, and he pulls him into the corner of the tight space. Harry settles into the wall as people continue to file in, dropping his hand and positioning Louis right in front of him.

“Press three, please,” Harry casually calls to the front.

Simultaneously, Harry flattens a warm palm against his hip, under his jacket, and he brings Louis flush against him. Louis shuts his eyes against the rush of sensation, giving in to rest just a fraction of his weight on Harry’s chest.

The elevator is too full for anyone to be able to easily see everywhere that they’re touching, but Louis uses his one available brain cell to silently apologize to their fellow commuters for Harry’s cock fattening against the small of his back. 

Blessedly, no one needs to get off on two (and if Louis doesn’t get off on three soon, he’ll probably scream), so the first “ding” of the doors belong to them. Harry stays attached to Louis as they push through to the front, collecting only a couple of dirty looks for their lack of adequate planning. 

Free and clear, Harry strides out in front of Louis, leading them past the ice machine and the laundry room, all the way to the pool-view hallway, Louis admiring a different view the whole way.

Finally, Harry stops in front of a door and throws a smirk over his shoulder at Louis as he begins digging in his pocket for his room key. 

And, that, really, is the last straw. Louis has spent a whole evening with a man who _wants_ him – who hadn’t hesitated to tell him so – and who he wants too, so badly he’s been consumed by it since the moment he learned Harry existed. Downstairs, he was in control, but he started to unravel in those few sweet seconds on the lift, when he leaned back into Harry’s full length.

Unable to wait any longer, Louis crowds into his space and tugs on the waistband of his jeans to turn Harry to face him. Harry’s expression is one of surprise, pleasure, and smugness – Louis is only too happy to pin him to the door, crawl his hands up his sides under his sweater vest, and kiss it right off of his face.

But he moves in slowly, savoring the sight of Harry’s blown-out pupils and the tangy scent of grapefruit on his breath. Saying nothing, Harry braces himself on the door with one hand, the other coming to grip the back of Louis’ neck, waiting for him to close the distance.

The first time Louis kisses Harry, it’s just a soft, lingering press of lips, sticky from their cocktails. When he pulls away briefly, darting his tongue out to wet his further, Harry chases after him, capturing his mouth with intensity and flattering desperation. So much for patience.

Harry breathes into Louis like they’ve just washed up on shore somewhere and he’s trying to revive him. It’s invigorating and fucking debilitating at the same time. So Louis returns the favor by sliding his tongue into Harry’s mouth and taking a deeper taste.

They’re interrupted by _ka-thunk_ that comes from the opposite end of the hallway. Louis breaks the kiss quick enough to see a woman’s shoe disappearing around a corner, and he’s reminded that they’re making out in a very well-lit, fairly public place.

“Quite sordid, this,” he says breathlessly, nudging Harry’s jaw with his nose and then pulling back to look at him. His lips are already puffier and pinker than they were a minute ago.

“Well, before I was so _rudely_ interrupted…” Harry teases, then resumes a fruitful search for his room key. 

Inside, he flips the entryway light on. It’s harsh just above them, but as they move into the recently serviced bedroom, it diffuses into a softer glow. 

Louis can’t help himself. Before he zeroes back in on Harry, he lets his eyes sweep around the small suite.

You can learn a lot from a person by how much they spread out in their hotel room, and what Louis learns from this one is that Harry is kind of a slob...or at least an indecisive dresser.

There’s clothing everywhere – strewn on chairs, in a pile on the floor, and pouring out of the suitcase he hadn’t bothered to put on the luggage rack – none of it seeming to go together. Harry had brought enough outfits for a three-week shoot, not a three-day weekend.

Contrary to Louis’ relatively restrained wardrobe, Harry’s is a rainbow of color and pattern as off-kilter and unapologetic as he is. Louis wants to see him in all of it.

But not just now.

“May I?” He fingers the hem of Harry’s vest, backing them up towards the bed, which is mercifully clear.

Harry nods, eyes dark, then helps Louis to strip it off of him. 

“Why don’t you sit for me, love?”

Harry does as he’s told, watching Louis rid himself of his track jacket and fold it neatly. 

Despite his earlier joke, what they’re doing doesn’t feel particularly unseemly or transient. Not that he holds any judgment for anyone who did, but Louis didn’t go into this weekend expecting a hookup, his partner being the only unknown quantity. No, Harry was wholly unexpected in every way, not the least of which is how he’s keenly observing Louis now, his lips parted and shirt halfway unbuttoned, his exposed chest pretty and flushed.

He’s had sexual encounters where it seemed like he and his partner were acting in two different movies, not for lack of trying to connect. But in an instant of looking at him like this, Louis understands something fundamental about what Harry needs, as forward as he’s been up until now.

He craves Louis’ approval. It’s written all over his beautiful face.

Still otherwise dressed, Louis approaches the bed, wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, and sinks into his lap. Harry supports his weight easily, and immediately his lips (and the occasional lick) are on his neck and beneath his ear and along the underside of his jaw. Louis arches into him to grant more access, held securely by Harry’s hands on his back.

“Baby, that’s so nice,” he murmurs, encouraging the little sounds coming from the back of Harry’s throat.

Then Louis cradles Harry’s face in his hands, positioning him for another scorching kiss, their noses bumping briefly, helplessly.

As he licks into Harry’s mouth, Louis tilts into him fully until his back hits the mattress. Harry’s hands travel down to grip his arse and he tries to hold Louis there on top of him, but Louis resists, sitting back on Harry’s hips so he can undo the few remaining buttons on Harry’s shirt and throw it open. 

Lightly, teasingly, he skates his fingertips down Harry’s torso, from his collarbone to his naval, enjoying the shiver it elicits. 

“You like that?” 

Harry lets out a shuddering breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I like that.”

Satisfied, Louis drapes himself over Harry’s chest and wetly encircles one nipple then flicks the rosy bud with his tongue, resulting in a sharp gasp. With Harry’s fist in his hair, he gropes blindly for Harry’s fly as he lavishes attention on his other more prominent nipple (his earlier examination revealed that he has a total of _four_ ), finally succeeding in popping the button and wrenching his hand inside the too-tight jeans, driving the zipper down. 

_“Fuck,”_ Harry hisses. 

“Styles, my goodness,” Louis says sweetly, gently squeezing Harry’s sizable cock. “Looks like your tentacles aren’t the only thing that’s big.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Harry whines, looking nothing short of delighted. 

“Never. Up, please.”

Louis pulls at the waistband with his other hand, prompting Harry to lift his arse from the bed. Watching his face closely for any sign of resistance, Louis drags Harry’s pants down his thighs along with his jeans, releasing his grip so that he can free him completely.

Standing again, Louis admires his handiwork: Harry laid out in front of him – totally bare but for the shirt still trapped behind his back – thumbing over the tip of his gorgeous cock.

His own erection strains against the stiff cotton of his jeans; Louis’ hand ghosts over it as his eyes roam over Harry’s body. But there’s something about the disparity in their nakedness that makes Louis feel more drunk than he is, and he decides that he’s not quite ready to surrender it.

He lies down on the bed next to Harry, who rolls onto his side and into him, tucking his hot face into Louis’ neck. Louis continues his exploration, pushing Harry’s shirt off of his shoulders finally, then trailing down his back and getting a handful – a perfect handful – of his cute arse. 

Harry grinds against him, sucking in air at the friction generated by the denim and his naked cock. 

“Lou, please,” he says into his ear. “Wanna touch you.”

“Okay, love.” Louis kisses his hair, then lets Harry pin him on his back and pull his t-shirt over his head.

Given permission, Harry dives in, dragging his lips over all the exposed skin he can reach, but spending extra time sucking kisses into his belly – the one Louis has occasionally wished was flatter. 

Sighing, Louis pushes Harry’s hair back from his face so he can see him better, memorizing this moment for future lonely nights.

Then Harry flicks his eyes up to him, resting his chin just below Louis’ naval. 

“Can I suck you?”

The “uh-huh” that escapes Louis’ mouth briefly embarrasses him, but it’s eclipsed by the rush of his dick finally being freed.

Harry just undoes his fly first, nuzzling into the black cotton of his underwear and making Louis’ cock jump.

“You’ll tell me, won’t you?” he asks, just above a whisper. “If I’m being good?”

That’s when Louis almost passes out.

“Ye-yeah,” he manages. “Yes.”

In one movement, Harry pushes his jeans and pants below his arse, sending Louis’ cock bobbing upward – neglected and eager.

Harry is longer, but Louis is thick, and Harry appears to have no complaints. 

Gingerly, he wraps his hand around the base, then spirals his tongue around the head. 

“Jesus,” Louis moans.

Harry smiles, content, then lifts Louis’ cock so he can lick a wide, firm stripe on its underside. Louis’ pelvis cants upward; Harry steadies him with his free hand.

“Really good,” Louis breathes. “So good.”

But it’s even better when Harry’s kiss-swollen lips close around the tip, his cheeks hollowing. Capturing Louis’ fascinated, fuck-out gaze, Harry takes him down further, then pulls all the way off, letting his teeth scrape the slightest bit as he does.

Holding his shaft steady, Harry carefully spits on it, his mouth watering from being so full. (It’s one of the reasons Louis has never envied another man’s dick – he’s proud of his girth.) Then he swipes his thumb over the slit, using his palm to coat Louis’ cock in pre-come and saliva. 

He’s concentrating so hard that he probably misses Louis’ eyes rolling back into his head. He’s going under quickly, but Louis eventually remembers he’s supposed to be providing status updates.

“Fucking _hell,”_ Louis rates Harry’s hand pumping his cock a few times before he swallows him down again. “Harry. Baby. I’m gonna come.”

This only inspires Harry to work harder, bobbing up and down faster and reaching down to delicately play with Louis’ balls.

There’s an almost unbearable pressure building in the deepest part of him, pulling Louis _tight tight tight_ until he explodes, expanding out and folding back in like a star. Harry stays with him through every bit of it, letting Louis coat his throat and soothing him as he comes back down.

For a moment, Louis is sure that he’s died.

No wonder he gets confused. When his eyes refocus, there’s an ethereal boy hovering over him, a speck of come in the corner of his tender, smiling mouth. Louis pulls Harry down to him and kisses him gratefully.

“Now,” he says coyly, after a minute of stroking Harry’s shoulder blade and regaining his breath. “What can we do for _you?_ ”

“Oh.” Harry reaches up to push Louis’ fringe away from his eyes. “I’m good, actually.”

And then Louis feels it – Harry’s cock softening against his thigh.

“You are? Just from–?”

“It was hot,” Harry admits. “Doing that. Watching you. I tried to wait, but...”

Louis opens his mouth and closes it again, amazed. “Well, now I feel like a bad date.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Harry traces unidentifiable shapes on Louis’ chest with his fingers. “I had an incredible time with you, Lou. Five stars.”

“They’ve gotta invent a new scale for you, love. Ten stars. A hundred.”

“I’m adding that to my CV,” Harry deadpans.

“As long as you don’t say what it’s for.”

Louis doesn’t realize how possessive that sounds until it comes out of his mouth, but Harry doesn’t flinch.

“Anyway, the weekend is young,” he continues, testing the waters. “Not much else to do here. Plenty of time to improve my rating?”

He glances hopefully at Harry, who looks hopelessly soft.

“Is that a comment or a question?”

“Either. Both. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but…”

“I don’t want to be done here either,” Harry finishes for him. “To be honest...I don’t know if I see that happening. Like, ever.”

Louis smirks, takes him in, and lets himself fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you in advance for any kudos and comments you leave and for reblogging [the Tumblr post](https://a-brighter-yellow.tumblr.com/post/615114520336171008/more-of-a-comment-than-a-question-by)! Come and talk to me there at [a-brighter-yellow](https://a-brighter-yellow.tumblr.com/), I am very nice.


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